A letter and a large, white teddy bear arrived for my husband, Stephen, from his youngest daughter. He hardly looked at the bear, but read a perfect letter for his last touch from his daughters—then passed over that night. During my first days, I put my small, white teddy bear and Stephen’s on the sofa watching television, telling them where I was going and when I’d be back.
Stephen and I could see inner images, hear an inner voice, and know by omniscience—meanings no one told us. This night, as I was climbing the stairs with the small teddy bear, I heard, “It’s cute, but not as cute as you are!” Amazed, looking at the bear and considering the message, I smiled. Stephen, in spirit, was close enough to comfort me, as he had always been—telling me over and over—“You are so strong; you are so beautiful.”
Stephen’s bear rode in the front seat of my red Cavalier, and at Crystal Beach I put him on a towel beside me. Flying, I carried him through airports and onto planes, meeting people who asked, “What’s his name.” Only one flight attendant told me to “put him in an overhead bin.”
When my dad questioned my carrying around a large teddy bear (and he meant at my age—fifty three), I explained it was “bear therapy.” I’d figured out I was used to being with and talking with Stephen; and while white, plush fur, stubby arms and legs, and stand-up ears didn’t match Stephen’s physique, the bear was a focus in a simple, heart-comforting way.
My realization is, “For some, spirit communication is possible, lengthening the link between us on earth with those in spirit who are able to communicate through the levels of separation between life and physical death.”